An Emerald in the Mud
by ribbon-acorn
Summary: An accidental magic spell turns Draco Malfoy into a Muggle during his sixth year. While Draco searches for a cure that will turn him back into a wizard, he must overcome his prejudice against Muggles. (This may end up as Dramione, but if it does, it will be a slow burn.)


Author's note: I hope you like this story! I am trying to judge whether I should abandon my other fic, To Tarnish Gold, which didn't end up as well as I would have liked it. If you want me to keep working on To Tarnish Gold, please let me know. As always, I don't own Harry Potter. Or anything involving this story, really, except my OCs. Enjoy the story, and please review!

* * *

Draco had been four years old when he met a Muggle for the first time.

His father had gone on an urgent business trip to the Ministry of Magic, and because Narcissa was out at tea he had no choice but to take little Draco along with him. Draco was ecstatic to be going on a trip with his father - all the way there, he peppered his father with questions about the Ministry. By the time they reached the Ministry itself, Lucius' patience was fraying like an old rope. Draco, oblivious to his father's irritation, merrily continued pestering him with questions.

"What is the Minister's favorite flavor of Bertie Botts Jelly Beans?"

Lucius pinched the bridge of his long nose with two fingers.

"Wait for me out here," he instructed Draco, who was standing obediently behind him. The little boy's pale, beaming face looked like a cherub Michelangelo had sculpted from marble. "Stay on the sidewalk until I return for you."

When Draco realized he wasn't going to follow his father into the Ministry, he was crestfallen. He watched as his father Apparated away, leaving Draco alone on the sidewalk in the middle of a bustling London day. Draco sat down on the curb of the sidewalk as he was told to do, and dully stared out at the legs of people rushing to and fro along the edge of the road. Draco was a good child and he might very well have waited there all day, if not for the fact that despite his strict upbringing he was still a four-year-old child, and down the road from him was a Muggle park. And in that Muggle park was a playground, upon which children Draco's age were clamoring and playing and laughing. Draco was seized by an overwhelming desire to laugh and play alongside those children. So, with all the impulsiveness of a young boy, Draco made his way up the road to the playground.

The playground had no magical equipment, no floating bouncy balls or singing teddy bears or animated dolls. The swings on the Muggle playground were not charmed to make it look as if you were flying miles above the ground. But Draco didn't notice or didn't care.

It was there that Draco met the little Muggle girl. Her name was lost to time, but perhaps it didn't matter anyway. The girl had flushed cheeks and sparkling blue eyes and a smattering of freckles and a crooked smile.

Draco was unused to Muggle playground equipment. When the girl approached Draco, he was attempting to swing himself across a set of metal bars and failing miserably. As the blond little boy tumbled to the wood chips on the ground, the girl made her move. She walked over and stood above Draco as he brushed wood chips off his robes.

"I know monkey bars," she had declared. "My sister taught me. They're easy. I'll show you how to use them."

"Okay," said Draco.

And just like that, the Muggle girl and Draco became instant friends. The girl showed Draco how to swing on the monkey bars. They went down the slide together, and Draco learned how to hopscotch and jump rope. They made a castle in the sandbox. ("It looks like a fairy palace," said the girl. "It looks like my house," said Draco.) They played make-believe on the grass next to the seesaw: the girl was a unicorn, and Draco was a dragon. ("I saw a unicorn, once," said Draco. "I read a book with a unicorn in it," said the girl. "It was pink and fluffy.") They took turns on the swings. They attempted to climb the wall made of ropes but Draco fell off and cried, so they went on the swirly slide instead.

It was almost twilight when Draco's perfect day came to an abrupt end. Draco and his new friend were riding some sort of spinning contraption when Lucius' form appeared in the playground gate. Draco broke into a wide grin when he saw his father. Grabbing the girl by her hand, he dragged his friend over to his father's side.

"Look!" said Draco happily, his wide, silver eyes shining with excitement. "I made a friend! It was so fun, we went on slides and swings and I climbed a rope and _fell off _and it hurt but I'm okay, and I was a dragon and -" Draco was cut off as Lucius' hand came down. A resounding smack echoed around the playground. Draco reeled back, clutching his cheek, which was rapidly growing red in the shape of a handprint. The Muggle girl dropped Draco's hand and took a step back, her eyes very wide.

"Muggles -," Lucius hissed, his breath very quick, "are filthy _scum_. Come with me." Lucius fastened his fist around his son's limp hand, and dragged the little boy behind a tree where they could safely Apparate back to Malfoy Manor. Lucius didn't notice Draco's last glance over his shoulder at the playground, where the little Muggle girl still stood, staring after them. It was better that way, anyway.

That night Draco got a lecture like never before. Narcissa blamed herself for the incident - it was all the fault of not having informed Draco better about the _danger_ Muggles posed. Lucius agreed: their son needed to be educated. So Narcissa and Lucius sat their son down, and told him everything he would ever need to know about Muggles on the spot. That night, Draco learned that Muggles were lying, thieving, magic-less and subservient, lesser than a wizard or a goblin or a house-elf. He learned that Muggles did not possess the power of magic due to their weak genes, and that they were slowly infecting magic-kind through Muggle-wizard crossbreeding. He learned about freak occurrences in which a Muggle gains enough power to perform simple magic. He learned that those freaks are called Muggleborns. He learned the definitions behind words he had heard his parents use before, words like Mudblood and Blood Traitor, and Dirt Dweller and Worm.

At first, Draco thought about the Muggle friend he had made that day on the playground. She wasn't a lying thief, like the Muggles his parents spoke about. But his cheek still throbbed, and after the lecture was over, his back and behind did too. Draco thought it might be better if he didn't mention his friend again.

Narcissa tucked him into bed that night, resting a cool hand on Draco's stinging cheek.

"You are a Malfoy and a Black," she whispered to her son as he closed his eyes. "You are descended from centuries of powerful wizards and Veelas and Purebloods. You will achieve great things someday. Muggles don't deserve to walk the same Earth as you, my treasure."

She flicked her wand to put out the lights, and Draco drifted off to sleep in the quiet darkness.

* * *

"Filthy Muggle scum."

_Filthy Muggle._

Hermione tightened her lips and furrowed her brow and kept walking towards the Gryffindor common room.

Don't let them judge how deep their words cut.

Hermione's shoulders tensed. The back of her throat burned. Her vision blurred into meaningless shapes and colors.

Don't let them see past the poker face.

Hermione had expressive features. It was useless to try to prevent her injured feelings from being reflected on her face, because despite her put-on blasé expression, Malfoy's words still whined like a persistent mosquito in her ear.

_Scum. Muggle scum._

Hermione could still hear more of Malfoy's jeers being thrown at her from behind. She squeezed her eyelids shut, and bit down hard on her lip. Her vision cleared as a tear took shape and streaked down her cheek. Hermione didn't dare wipe it away.

"Go on, run away!" Malfoy called to her retreating back. His voice rose and took on a gleeful note. "Run back to your dirty Muggle family. Mudblood coward!"

"Tell her, Malfoy!" Another Slytherin was yelling encouragement from the far side of the Hogwarts' courtyard. "That worm belongs in the dirt with the other mud-dwellers!"

Hermione's insides boiled with hatred, but she did not turn around. She wouldn't rise to the Slytherin's bait.

She could sense a hex hurtle past, so dangerously close to hitting her face that she could feel the hex's heat on her cheek. Her fist trembled around her wand, and she sucked in a deep, centering breath.

_She wouldn't rise to their bait, she wouldn't, she wouldn't, keep your temper Hermione, cool down now, they aren't worth it, don't rise to their bait._

She rounded the corner and was finally out of earshot - and hexshot - of the Slytherins. Hermione took another deep breath, and reached up to nervously flatten her coily her. She had come so close - _too_ close to being hexed this time. It was the second week of school in Hermione's sixth year, and the taunts about her blood type were only increasing in frequency. The jinxes the Slytherins were shooting at her were becoming more dangerous, too, as the students became more cocky and confident. She was willing to bet that hex was an Unforgivable.

Hermione began to pick up her pace, and by the time she reached the Fat Lady she was nearly jogging. It was better to be safe than sorry these days, and she needed to move quickly through the hallways to avoid unwelcome confrontations.

"_Leo est semper fortis_," Hermione whispered to the Fat Lady. She stepped into the portrait hole as it swung open, being careful not to upset the teetering pile of books she held in her arms.

Ron and Harry were sitting in their normal spot in front of the fireplace, playing a game of chess. Hermione joined them just in time to see Ron jump two of Harry's pieces.

"Check," said Ron cheerfully, ruffling up his ginger hair. Harry groaned.

"I don't think I'll ever win," the Indian boy said despairingly, waving a wand so that all the chess pieces flew back into their box. He glanced up and saw Hermione sitting on an armchair beside them. "Oh, hey Hermione! Did you just get back?"

"Yep," responded Hermione, setting the pile of books down on the floor. "These are the books you wanted me to pick up from the library."

"We didn't ask for any books," Ron said, bemused. He picked up a thick volume from the top of the stack and wrinkled his nose. "_Rowena's Theory of Ancient Rites. _Why in Merlin's name would I read this?"

"Let me adjust that statement," amended Hermione. "These are the books that I picked up from the library because we have a Transfiguration essay due tomorrow and you should read up on the theory if you want to get above a D."

"Thanks Hermione!" grinned Harry sheepishly, grabbing a book off the top and opening it. "You're a lifesaver."

"Yeah, thanks Hermione," Ron echoed. "If it wasn't for you, I don't think we'd pass a single test."

Hermione smiled, tiredly. Being friends with Harry and Ron was exhausting, but it was always worth it.

"The essay is on Ancient Transfiguration Rituals… so… rituals, rituals, rituals… here!" Ron exclaimed, holding up the book he was skimming. "Ancient rituals, according to Rowena's Theory."

"I don't know if Rowena's Theory has enough information to write an full essay on," Hermione mused, studying the page Ron had pointed out. She rooted through the leaning pile of books on the floor, until she pulled out one with a purple cover. "But this book looked like it had a lot of good information in it. I was flipping through it on my way back to the common room. I was about to mark the page, before Malfoy -" she cut herself off. The last thing she needed was Ron and Harry attacking Malfoy the day before their big Transfiguration Rituals essay was due. However, she caught herself too late.

"What did Malfoy do now?" asked Harry, his voice strained with quiet anger.

"Did he hurt you?" Ron demanded, his ears flushing red to match his hair.

"No! No, nothing like that," Hermione said quickly. "Well, he did try to hex me, but it missed anyway, so no harm no foul. Right?"

Apparently, the boys did not share Hermione's line of thought. Harry made a guttural growling noise, and his eyes flared green from behind his glasses. Ron stood up so abruptly that Rowena's Theory toppled off his lap and hit the floor with a clatter.

"I'll _kill_ him," snarled Ron. "I'll bloody well _kill_ him!" His ear tips deepened to a shocking shade of scarlet, and his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles shone white against his freckles. Harry silently reached for his wand, from where it was laying beside the chess board.

"Absolutely not," said Hermione firmly. She stood up and took Ron by the shoulder, forcing him back down into his seat. She grabbed Harry's hand and wrenched the wand out of it.

"Hermione!" Harry protested, vainly grabbing for his wand back. "He hexed you!"

"Yes," allowed Hermione, "but we don't have to hex him back. We shouldn't sink to his level. Let it go."

Harry raised his eyebrows, in an '_are you sure?' _expression. Hermione nodded.

"Come on now," she said. "Let's get ready for the essay tomorrow. You aren't prepared at _all_."

Hermione flipped her purple book back open. She could sense that Ron and Harry were still seething on her behalf but she choose to ignore them, instead reading out loud from the book.

"'Ritual Transfiguration is the oldest form of magic known to wizardkind,'" Hermione read out loud, underlining the text as she went. "'However, today it is considered ineffective and useless.' Look, here's an example."

She passed the book to Harry. His gaze swept down the page, take in the information.

"The book gives an example of a ritual spell from 122 B.C.," Harry observed. "The ritual supposed to wipe a magical being of its power and turn it into a non magical creature. Like a centaur into a horse, or wizard into a Muggle." Harry cleared his throat. "The ritual's direct translation is, '_Blood of power, feat so tragic, by this hour, strip _blank _of magic.'" _He squinted at the words. "Why does it say 'blank'?"

"You fill in the name of the spell's recipient there," Hermione informed him. Ron's blue eyes lit up with a mischievous glitter.

"Pass it here," Ron said, smirking, holding out his hands for the ritual book. Harry obliged. Ron scrawled something in the margins of the book. Harry leaned over Ron's shoulder and read it outloud.

"'_Blood of power, feat so tragic, by this hour, strip Draco Malfoy of magic'._"

Hermione shuddered slightly as Harry repeated what was written on the page. It had felt as if a ripple of energy had passed through the room. The sensation was odd, unlike anything Hermione had ever felt. It filled her bones with a strange buzzing feeling, before it sweeping passed her, leaving Hermione feeling dazed. But the strange sensation passed as quickly as it came. Unsure of how to react, Hermione dampened her lips nervously with her tongue. Unperturbed by any eerie feelings, Harry laughed. "That's great, Ron. I only wish ritual spells still worked."

Still on edge, Hermione anxiously glanced around. The common room was beginning to fill with the chatter of students filtering in from their classes. None of the students seemed to be reacting to any rippling energy. "I don't know if speaking ritual spells is a good idea," Hermione confessed, closing the cover of the Ancient Rituals book.

"I thought the book said ritual magic is ineffective and useless," Ron pointed out. "Besides, Malfoy would totally have it coming if we turned him into a Muggle. That git is awful, with his Pureblood loving, Muggle-hating nonsense. Turning into a Muggle would teach him a valuable lesson. That's if the ritual spell worked, anyway, which it didn't."

Hermione sighed.

"I know."

"So let's get back to homework then, huh?" Harry offered, flipping a book open again. "Let's see… ritual spells… ritual spells… look, here. Page 101."

Hermione smiled and picked up another book. Ron and Harry were right. Ritual Transfiguration spells were rendered obsolete centuries ago, and there was no guarantee they had really even worked in the first place. She picked her quill back up and started to mark helpful notes in the margins of the text, her mind finally at ease.

Draco Malfoy was king of the school. It wasn't even an argument, as far as he was concerned. He didn't have a crown, but the way he carried himself made him recognizable as royalty in any shape or form. Just look at the way the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws fled from his path when they saw him and his posse of Purebloods coming. Look at the way the Gryffindors glared at him from across the hallways and classrooms, too intimidated by his position to do anything more rebellious than stare sullenly in his direction. Look at his white-blond hair and high cheekbones that marked him as a Malfoy, and his silver eyes that marked him as a Black! And look at the assignment the Dark Lord himself had bestowed upon Draco: to kill the Headmaster. That The Dark Lord trusted Draco to kill Albus Dumbledore was the highest honor anyone could dream of receiving.

That was why Draco considered himself the unofficial king of the school. He walked with his head held high, his angled Malfoy features pointing toward the ceiling so that he looked down on everyone around him. He was the son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black - his blood was not tainted by the grime of Muggles like the lesser students that surrounded him.

That afternoon, Draco was on his way back to the Slytherin common room from Potions class. Fanning out behind him was Gregory, Vincent, Blaise, Pansy, Millicent, and Theodore - the only other students in his year that Draco associated with. They shared his view on Mudbloods and purity, and if they didn't come from families as pure as the Malfoys and Blacks, at least their family lines were respectable enough for Draco to interact with them. Draco was almost friends with Gregory and Vincent, even.

The seven Slytherins were strutting through the courtyard on their way back to the dungeon, when Theodore caught sight of something across the stone flagged yard. His face broke into a snake-like smile, and he whispered '_Mudblood alert. Due east.' _

It was the Gryffindor, Granger. She had just emerged from the library, and her nose was stuck so deep into a book that it seemed unlikely she would ever be able to wrench it out.

Draco didn't grin. Grinning wasn't proper, and a Pureblood must be proper at all times. But he did come very close to sneering. Granger was an easy target - off her guard, out in the open.

"Hey, Granger! Get your dirty nose out of the book, you filthy Muggle scum!" he yelled across the courtyard. Granger looked up from her book with an expression of surprise and resignation on her face. She spun around, setting her book back onto the teetering stack she held in her arms, and began to stride out of the courtyard. Her back was turned to the Slytherins. A fatal mistake. "Go on, run away!" Draco called after her, pulling his wand out from his richly embroidered robes. "Run back to your dirty Muggle family. Mudblood coward!"

"Tell her, Malfoy!" snickered Blaise from behind him, his eyes gleaming with malicious elation. "That worm belongs in the dirt with the other mud-dwellers!"

"_Use crucio_," whispered Pansy in his ear. "_The Mudblood needs to be taught a real lesson."_

That was all the encouragement Draco needed. He swirled his wand through the air, feeling the familiar tingle of strength that he got from casting a powerful spell. His wand was one with his hand. Draco was in his element.

"Crucio," he hissed.

A flash of light exploded from his wand and shot toward Granger, grazing the Gryffindor on the cheek. Draco watched as the Mudblood flinched away from his spell and rushed back into the building.

"Merlin," Draco cursed, tucking the wand back into his robes. "I almost had her."

"Perhaps it's for the best," consoled Theodore, as the Slytherins resumed their walk back to the common room. "If you cast an Unforgivable on the Mudblood now, old Dumbles will definitely expel you, and then you'll lose your opportunity to knock him off from within the school."

"I suppose," Draco conceded reluctantly. He glanced around to see if anyone had eavesdropped on their private conversation, and noticed that the hallways were almost abandoned. It suddenly occurred to him that it was dinnertime, and most of the students were eating in the Great Hall by now. He cast his eyes around the hallway as he and the Slytherins stalked along, and his gaze landed on a pair of Slytherin first years on their way to dinner. "You. First years. Fetch me and my friends dinner and bring it back to the common room immediately." He paused for dramatic effect. "If you aren't there with the food before me and my friends arrive, the consequences will be beyond your wildest nightmares."

The first years squeaked something resembling '_Yessir_," before scurrying off to the Great Hall.

"You're turning first years into House Elves now," observed Millicent, smoothing out her robes. "Honestly, not the worst idea you've ever had."

"Mm." Draco smirked in a self satisfied way. He was looking forward to eating a hot meal in front of the fire this evening. Life was good.

* * *

It began to happen at dinner.

Draco set silver fork down on the edge of his plate and leaned back on the velvet couch. A tremor had just shaken his body, like someone had grabbed him by the shoulders and rocked him forward and back. His legs and arms felt rather weak. He closed his eyes. All of a sudden, he was feeling a little sleepy.

"I will retire to my bedroom early tonight," he announced to the table. There was a collective groan - when the Slytherin king went to bed, everyone else did too, and the other Slytherins were in the middle of a very exciting game of Exploding Snap. Draco paid no heed to his grumbling subordinates. He grabbed his wand, which twitched very slightly in his hand. Draco glanced down at it. Wands weren't supposed to _twitch_. Draco shook his head. He was too tired to deal with twitching wands. He gathered the rest of his things and began the climb to his dormitory. He really was getting very tired. His eyelids fluttered as sleep crept in on him. He barely had time to change out of his robes - they cost 150 galleons, there was no way he would wrinkle them by falling asleep with them on - before he collapsed on his bed and let his strangely abrupt exhaustion wash over him.


End file.
